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meanwhile takes a pinch of snuff.
‘Now,’ says Sir Leicester. ‘How has that contest gone?’
‘Oh, hollow from the beginning. Not a chance. They have
brought in both their people. You are beaten out of all rea-
son. Three to one.’
It is a part of Mr. Tulkinghorn’s policy and mastery to
have no political opinions; indeed, NO opinions. Therefore
he says ‘you’ are beaten, and not ‘we.’
Sir Leicester is majestically wroth. Volumnia never heard
of such a thing. ‘The debilitated cousin holds that it’s sort of
thing that’s sure tapn slongs votes—giv’n—Mob.
‘It’s the place, you know,’ Mr. Tulkinghorn goes on to say
in the fast-increasing darkness when there is silence again,
‘where they wanted to put up Mrs. Rouncewell’s son.’
‘A proposal which, as you correctly informed me at the
time, he had the becoming taste and perception,’ observes
Sir Leicester, ‘to decline. I cannot say that I by any means
approve of the sentiments expressed by Mr. Rouncewell
when he was here for some half-hour in this room, but there
was a sense of propriety in his decision which I am glad to
acknowledge.’
‘Ha!’ says Mr. Tulkinghorn. ‘It did not prevent him from
being very active in this election, though.’
Sir Leicester is distinctly heard to gasp before speaking.
‘Did I understand you? Did you say that Mr. Rouncewell
had been very active in this election?’
‘Uncommonly active.’
‘Against—‘
‘Oh, dear yes, against you. He is a very good speaker.

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